The Loyal Bear and the Princess Fair
by PrincessDaydream77
Summary: Deep in the open darkness of the Red Waste, an assassin laid in wait for Daenerys Stormborn. But even when his lethal attacks are foiled, the Khaleesi is left fighting for her life, and can rely only on her loyal bear, Jorah, to save her.
1. Danger in the Darkest Hour

The Loyal Bear and the Princess Fair

Summary: Deep in the open darkness of the Red Waste, an assassin laid in wait for Daenerys Stormborn. But even when his lethal attacks are foiled, the _khaleesi_ is left fighting for her life, and can rely only on her loyal bear, Jorah, to save her.

Disclaimer: I only own this specific writing, nothing else.

Chapter One

For miles around, all that could be seen were plots of dead grass and gnarled dry trees. The landscape was covered in dust, not only from the dead of the plant life, but from the broken bones of those who had wasted away. Its reputation for causing many of the deceased in the wilderness was what had led the area to achieve its name. The Red Waste.

Though it was the same for miles around, there was one difference in landscape in the desert. Towards the north-east of the place, a horde of warriors camped out in the night, their makeshift tents fluttering in the harsh night's winds. Despite the terrible reputation of the wasteland in which they had made their campground, all of the Dothraki warriors seemed to be sleeping peacefully. This gave the hooded figure their first chance to strike.

In the loneliness of the Red Waste, there were no spies for any House, Westerosi or otherwise. No one could possibly see the treason that the man was about to commit against the Dothraki soldiers, as every one of them was deep in slumber, the heat wounding them too deeply for the warriors to remain awake to the depths of the night that the man moved through.

At the heart of the group of makeshift tents rested the one that house the very heart of the Dothraki themselves. Their _khaleesi_.

The _khalasar_ had evidently spent a great deal of time to ensure that their queen was as comfortable as she could be, as they had always done for her, and each person would continue to do until they died, or until she did, a tragedy that did not bear thinking about. In the views of the traditionalists, Daenerys Stormborn should not have remained a leader, as her husband, the _khal_ had become weak and had died, but the small remaining _khalasar_ did not care. She had shown them kindness, compassion and strength, the qualities that they had always so desired in a _khaleesi_, but that none had ever shown. As such, she would remain their true _khaleesi_ until the mountains blew in the wind like leaves.

However, there were those across the Narrow Sea who also did not agree with the woman being leader of a _khalasar_. Some of them, the more liberal ones, may not have challenged the fact that a woman was the commander of an army, though these would certainly have been a minority, but a Targaryen woman, the daughter of the Mad King, they would not allow it. She needed to be stopped, by any means necessary.

This was the reason for which the Dothraki had appointed a loyal man from her own birth land of Westeros to take care of the young _khaleesi_, as they trusted none with her life above Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island. The man had shown great courage for many a year, particularly since the arrival of the _khaleesi_ and her late elder brother, Viserys, the Beggar King.

Regardless of his formidability in the country he had once called his own, the cloaked man stepped past the former Bear Islander as one would a sleeping child, showing not a hint of fear, despite the fact that the exiled knight would skin him alive, should he find him entering the tent of the _khaleesi _with the intentions for which he did so.

The moment he had stepped fully into the room, the cloaked man caught sight of the shimmering moonlight reflected off of the silver hair of Daenerys Targaryen. She was as beautiful as had been reported to them, even more so perhaps if that was possible, and her light locks and toning stood out clearly against the dark manes and copper skin of the Dothraki women. Crowned in silver and gold upon her head, it was clear that she was a queen, even as she slumbered.

'_I wonder if she knows that she is in danger.'_ the man beneath the hood wondered to himself, as he reached into his cloak for the weapon that none of the horse riding screamers would ever have considered as deadly as it was about to prove to be. '_Though if she does, she will not know for long, not with the contents of this vial.'_

As his thoughts rested on the vial once again, he clutched it tightly in his palm, the glass digging into his skin, the pain reminding him of the pain he was to cause, or the pain that would be caused for him if he did not accomplish the task. It was not a risk that he felt he could task, no matter how valiant of one it may have been.

Silently, the man beseeched the gods, praying that the Seven would forgive him for what he was about to do. It was, after all, the most awful of crimes, and it was said that those who committed it would be sent to the lowest layer of the seven hells. He could only hope that the gods would be merciful to him.

Not allowing himself to wait even another moment, for fear that he would change his mind and run, the man plucked the stopper out of the vial, pinched the woman's nose shut and tipped the contents of the bottle down her throat. It was done.

The moment the deed was accomplished, the man turned and ran, ensuring that he took the vial with him, so that he could not possibly be traced. In his wake, he left a woman deep in slumber, unaware as the awful liquid took root in her body, wrapping itself around her heart.

As morning light began to shine, before night was even really through, Daenerys was not roused, nor did she even stir. And nor would she.

A/N: No Jorah in this chapter, I know, but he'll be playing a huge part in the next few. I just wanted to establish what was happening for the rest of the story. Please review!


	2. Someone to Blame

Chapter Two

A/N: No reviewers.

As the sun rose in the sky, Ser Jorah Mormont rose from his place on the floor, just outside the entrance to the tent that belonged to his _khaleesi_. His back ached in complaint as he did so, given that he had slept with it against one of the tent poles, so that he could better be alert to fight off any dangers. Unfortunately, at some point late into the night, he had reluctantly allowed himself to close his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them once again, morning had been coming.

Once his head had cleared, the man let out a sigh. None of the other Dothraki guards had woken yet, though this had not surprised the Andal as much as anyone else might have thought, as they had been standing guard over the _khaleesi_ all day, in the heat of the burning Red Waste. They had far more right to have slept than he had had, and yet he suspected that he had done so for longer.

As the thoughts of guard duty entered into his head, the knight decided that he should check on the Targaryen princess, to ensure that she was alright. '_I suppose that she is a true queen now,'_ he reminded himself. '_And not only the _khaleesi _that I met all that time ago, when she was but a frightened child, being wed to a man that she did not know, in exchange for an army for her power crazed brother__.__ How far she has come since then.'_

Drawing himself from his thoughts to concentrate on the task at hand, the man ducked beneath the flap of the tent, not wincing on this occasion at the fiery ache in his back, as he was now completely awake, and had faced far worse than this in the past, having been a soldier for a great many years. '_Longer than she has been living.'_ he thought before he could stop himself, and though the truth stung, he moved forward nonetheless, trying to clear his mind so that he did not notice how much of a child she still was.

Upon entering the tent, the man's thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the queen, sleeping peacefully in the small futon that she called her bed. In her slumber, her face was not marred by the expression of worry that she so often wore in her waking hours, giving her a look of serenity that Jorah was not sure he had seen in her for a long time, if he ever had done. Without the burden of leadership on her shoulders, she seemed to be more beautiful in sleep than ever before.

However, all was not right. The knight could feel it deep in his bones, akin to the feeling he had always experienced before a battle, a feeling of dread and sorrow and loss. Something was wrong, dreadfully so, and he moved in the direction of the sleeping woman who, now he was lost in a haze of fear, no longer seemed to be peaceful, merely unmoving.

Unable to think of propriety at that moment, the man reached for the hand of the _khaleesi_, grasping at her wrist for the tell-tale sign of life that beat beneath the skin. His forehead was beginning to bead with sweat, his breathing had become rapid, and his vision was starting to blur a little, though he would never admit so. He had been taught as a child that it was a weakness for a knight to cry, and so he had only done so a couple of times in his life, and never over something as trivial as a woman. '_But she's not a trivia, not to me.'_ the man thought, as he blinked his eyes clear of water.

Luckily, in his show of grief, the man's mind took over for just enough time for him to notice that there was a faint beat against the two fingers that he had still not removed from her wrist. It was so faded that it was almost too much to be felt, but it was there, and the more Jorah concentrated on it, the more apparent it seemed to become, much to his relief. It took a minute or two for the man to come to his senses enough to call for help, and when he did so, the handmaidens, Irri, Jhiqui and Doreah came running, their hands flying to their mouths as they saw the state of their _khaleesi_, her face pale as the moon and her body limp as a scrap of cloth. '_She looks all but dead already.'_ Ser Jorah sighed, though he was loathe to admit that to himself, for fear that that would make it come true. However, his mind was soon taken over with a simple question that he was shocked he had not thought of before. '_How could this have happened?'_

The very same moment as the question appeared, an answer followed just as swiftly. '_This was Robert Baratheon's doing.'_ his mind cried out. There was no other rational explanation for the happenings, and everything would fall into place, had it been the Usurper who had ordered the attack on Daenerys. He had a vendetta against the Targaryen line, after all that had happened with his betrothed, Lyanna, and now that she had her dragons, the woman was a direct threat to his keeping the Iron Throne. Another thought soon entered his mind, though, returning the burden of guilt to his shoulders. '_But this is not only his doing. It is mine.'_

It was his informing that had been the undoing of his _khaleesi_, of that much the man was, unfortunately, certain. How else could the assassin, or whoever had been hired to do the stag's bidding, have known where to find a woman who had been in exile all her life. No, it was clear enough that this was his doing.

He had finally found a woman who had been more than a trivial distraction, and it had been by his hand that she had been murdered.

A/N: I know that this wasn't very action-ish, but it's meant to be about Jorah's feelings towards Daenerys, and how he felt her 'death'. Please, please review!


	3. Questions With No Answers

Chapter Three

A/N: No reviewers.

Night had fallen once again, and Ser Jorah Mormont had not moved from the place which he had seated himself that very morning. Healers and blood riders had been in and out of the tent in abundant droves, along with her handmaidens, Irri, Jhiqui and Doreah, at least one of whom had remained in the tent at all times during the day, but now they had all gone to bed, trusting that the Andal would allow no harm to come to his precious sovereign. The only one who remained awake was the Andal, his hand entwined with that of the sleeping queen, Daenerys.

'_How strange.'_ he observed, as he clasped her hand a little more firmly. '_For fifteen moons' turning, I have tried to win her affections, far more so in the past couple, and yet it is only now, when she lies dying in a bed, a state that I am responsible for, that I may be able to hold her hand in mine, as I have wanted to do all this time.'_

Once again, the knight felt his eyes blur with tears, and for what felt like the thousandth time that day, he blinked them back. He would not abandon his principles and cry, not while there was still life in the body of the _khaleesi_. While there was still life, there was still a chance, and a chance was all he needed.

Jorah shook his head to himself, looking down on the face of the woman, whose face was now near as white as her silvery hair. She had been poisoned, that much was certain, as the handmaidens had checked her for wounds and found none. However, as idiotic as the Usurper might have been, it was unlikely that he would have attempted to kill Daenerys with a toxin that had an antidote. In fact, now that he thought of it, this was not the kind of way he would have expected the man would try to kill her at all. Though he had given it little thought, for peace of his own mind, the man had to admit that, should Robert himself have given the order, he would have sent a knife and a bold man to wield it. Something was not right in this, not right at all.

Suddenly, the Andal was pulled from his thoughts, as the hand he held in his own jerked violently. The man turned to face his queen immediately, his hopes rising into the air like the dragons that the woman had hatched, but the moment her face caught his eye, he realised that she was not awake at all, but merely tossing and turning in the throes of a nightmare.

Jorah was at a loss as to what to do. Having not been surrounded by a great deal of people as a young man, or indeed in his own childhood, that would submit to a bad dream, the knight had never become accustomed to how to comfort someone when they experienced a terror in the night. Though he did not doubt that many of the fellow bannermen to the Starks had had nightmares, none had ever admitted this, let alone, gods forbid, sought comfort. This meant that now, when Daenerys truly needed him, he had no clue what he could do to help her.

At a loss as to what else he could do, the bearded man rest one strong hand on the Targaryen queen's face, feeling her skin burn at a scorching heat beneath his palm. Perhaps this was due to her illness, her body attempting to fight the awful poison that coursed through her veins, but he could not be sure. It was said of her line, after all, that they were fire made flesh, and all rumours had to come from a source.

Despite his evident lack of knowledge, the gesture seemed to soothe the blonde just a little, as her fitting ended, and she collapsed back into the rough feather pillows, her head lolling heavily backwards. Instantly, the man groped at the wrist of his sovereign, relieved to find that the pulse still beat strongly beneath her skin. Or at least, as strongly as it had done since the attempt on her life. '_Perhaps now she can finally have a little peace.'_ he thought, and cursed the implication of these words not a second later, as he realised exactly how much he stood to lose, should this 'peace' be a permanent arrangement.

'_She is far too young to have such a shadow of death hanging over her.'_ Jorah mused darkly, the words so painfully true that he once again felt the irritating prickle in his eyes, though he used his knuckles to rid himself of it quite quickly. '_She has never done anything to hurt anyone. She is the gentlest soul I have ever had the fortune to meet, and why anyone, even Robert Baratheon should wish to cause her harm is beyond my own understanding. I am well aware that this attempt on the life of the _khaleesi_ was the work of the Usurper. There is no other who could have a vendetta against a child, yet still I do not think that this is the way he would go about her death. He would want her blood spilled. Not this.'_

A cry sounded through the tent, bringing the man from his thoughts once again. He could not stand this any longer. He had loved Daenerys Targaryen for a long while, much longer than he would have cared to admit, and after all of this, he would not merely stand by and watch as her life was stolen away.

Pushing the fabric aside, the man stormed through the fabric of the tent, making for his horse, one of the few that still remained alive. He mounted the stallion in a swift fluid motion, riding it up to a gallop as quickly as was possible. He needed to reach Qohor, before it was too late.

A/N: Please review!


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